Red
by WichitaRed
Summary: how should an all-night poker game end?


Curry leaned in close over Hannibal Heyes' shoulder, hissing "speak to you," and before his words had dissipated, he was walking.

With a slow exhale through his nose, Heyes' mouth pressed into a flat smile, and laying his cards down, he said; "deal me out." Standing, he arched his back, and plucking off his hat, he swept his winnings into his battered reminder of glory days.

Strolling up behind Curry, Heyes thought he detected irritation in the set of his pal's shoulders, which was confirmed when he saw the sharp blue eyes staring back at him from the bar's mirror. "Was going to say, this best be good, but. . ." Heyes' grinned, "decided I might keep that to myself."

Turning, Curry leaned his left elbow on the bartop, "didn't quite manage it, did you?"

"Seems not," Heyes replied, through his familiar broad, dimpled smile.

Curry shook his head, the long stampede strings of his hat swaying with the motion, "ready to call it a night."

Heyes nodded toward the table, "every last one of them believes they can draw to an inside straight."

"I seen that." Curry drawled, the strings swaying more as he turned to study the collection of men, "I also seen you made good gains off their faults."

Heyes rapped on the wide bar top, and the bartender heaved himself off a stool where he had propped himself in the corner.

"Come on. . ." Curry's eyes flitted to the approaching man, ". . . call it a night, we got enough to get us by for a while."

"Do not feel like getting by," Heyes answered bitterly, looking to the barkeep, "beer," then back to Curry. "Feel like staying, more than one night, in a decent hotel, and eating someone else's cooking, and I do not mean yours."

"Sunset was hours ago; I want some sleep."

Digging a five from his hat, Heyes extended it, "then lay off harping at me and go get some." Taking up the beer, he left behind two-bits, huffily declaring, "I can take care of myself."

Kid Curry looked down his nose, at his pal, his forehead crinkling into layer after dubious layer, "since when?"

A frown dug into Heyes' face, his cheeks pulling tight as his eyes narrowed down with darkness.

Again, Curry shook his head, chuffing out a laugh, "when was the last time, you can honestly say, your temper even intimidated me?"

Scrunching his nose, Heyes took a drink, and emerging, stated, "I can take care of myself."

"Sure you can," Curry got out through a yawn, and pushing off the bar, he folded the five, jamming it down in his vest pocket. "That is if you don't push 'em too far."

Rolling his eyes, Heyes sighed out, "fine, I will let them have turns winning."

"All right." Curry studied the men a moment more, before turning to leave, "gonna get us a room at that hotel, nearest the stables."

With an acknowledging grunt, Heyes returned to the game, settling back in, and time slipped away as he read the circle of players, calculating the odds while enjoying the feel of the pasteboards in his hands.

The rising sun shone brightly through the saloon's painted front windows, its light as red as the blood splattered across the poker table.

On Heyes' left, the pristine brim of the fawn-colored bowler, the cowboy who had worked his jaw overtime, clung at a jaunty angle on the man's lolling head.

"Go on, I wanna hear 'nother of you say something insultin'."

Beads of sweat pricked to life between Heyes' shoulder blades, and his tongue slipped across his lower lip. The shooter's dark eyes shifted his way, and a bead of sweat broke free, tickling its way down Heyes' spine.

"You got something to say?"

Heyes remained stoically silent.

"You been talkative 'nuff, all night, why not now?"

The left dimple tremored, and as it did, Heyes softly replied, "not much of a mind to say anything, Chuck, all things considered."

Chuck's tight eyes glanced at the dead cowboy, "he had it comin'."

The short-barreled Remington pistol wavered, a bit, toward Heyes, and raising he chin, Heyes politely said, "not everyone here was not being derisive."

"Don't even know what that means."

Heyes' mouth flexed, but he held in the smile that felt like making an appearance, "we weren't all dealing in on the jests being passed your way tonight."

A shudder ran through the lean man that accented his right shoulder, humped up higher than the other, and he nodded, "Well, there weren't no call to ride a man like he done." Chuck sighed like the pages of a fluttering book in the wind, what he had done starting to sink in, "and, the way he'd hoot and laugh, repeat em'self and laugh some more." He took a step back, the revolver sagging in his extended hand. "Just got so I could not bear hearin' em no more."

A few feet to Heyes' right, the full-bearded Reb who had urged the cowboy's derisive humor on, inched his hand toward the pistol strapped to his hip.

But just as suddenly as he had leapt back shooting, Chuck barked, "Don't do it, Mister. . ." The Remington barrel riveting on the Reb, and all at the table knew, at this range, there was no way the young man could miss. "Just don't. . . or I will have to kill you."

"If'n ya cut me down. . ." The Reb looked about the table, "ya plannin' on doin' the same for everyone here."

Chuck's grip tightened on the pistol's butt, "if'n I have too."

"I would like to put in that may not be your best choice."

Chuck's eyes bolted wide-open, and he spun, his finger tightening on the trigger and a ringing blast shuddered through the room, yet again; blood spattering the Reb, and the Remington clattering to the floor.

Every man Jack at the table, pushed back, reaching for their own pistols, except Heyes, who remained seated the smile he had restrained earlier, appearing in earnest.

"Joshua, you had enough for one night?"

Heyes nodded, "my pal, there isn't going to holster until each of you do."

Chuck was on the ground squealing, gripping of his shattered hand that was oozing blood onto the dusty floor, and the Reb bent, scooping up the dropped revolver.

"Make a smart choice," came a cold order from behind him, and glancing back, the older man swallowed hard at the blue eyes bearing into him with the menace of a starved timber wolf. Then huffing out a weak sounding laugh, he tossed the pistol on the tabletop.

Having tucked his winnings away, Heyes stood, arched his back, and drolly declared "think I am ready to find one of them decent hotels."

Curry shook his head, backing toward the door, and as Heyes passed by, he whispered, "thought you could take care of yourself."

With a shrug, Heyes replied, "when do you ever give me a chance to prove it."

Following his partner out, Curry holstered his pistol as the door smacked closed. "Hope you do not think you are _heading_ for a hotel."

The twinkle was back in Heyes' eyes when they slanted to his partner, "Well, not in this town." He grinned mischievously, "about sunset, we will be in a new place, and we can see what they have to offer."

Rubbing a hand across his mouth, to hide a smile, Curry lightly growled, "Then let's get out of this one before we again have to explain how common the names Smith and Jones are."


End file.
